


Ultimate

by dansunedisco



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Cinnamon Roll Jordan Parrish, Drinking Games, F/M, First Kiss, Flirting, Frat Boy Jordan Parrish, Partying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-28
Updated: 2015-08-28
Packaged: 2018-04-17 15:26:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4671713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dansunedisco/pseuds/dansunedisco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jordan Parrish is your typical dude-bro -- except, you know, totally <i>not</i>.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>Marrish + college + cinnamon roll frat boy Jordan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ultimate

“I hate him.” 

Allison barely glances up from her textbook. “Hm?”

Lydia huffs, perturbed. Granted, it’s not the first time she’s exclaimed her deep-seeded hatred over one Jordan Parrish, but a girl’s problem -- no matter how trivial -- needs to be acknowledged by her friends in full. “He’s doing it again,” she says, poking Allison with her pen until Allison straightens up with a sigh and turns to look over her shoulder.

They’re sitting under the shade of some oak trees, by the benches across from the Memorial Church, and they’re in clear view of the verdant field where Parrish and his friends are playing their juvenile frisbee game, almost all of them shirtless and sweaty. Irritation itches between Lydia’s shoulder blades at the sight. Normally, she’s all about people watching, especially when they’re people with bodies like Jordan’s, but she can’t feel anything but frustration now. 

Allison turns back a moment later, eyebrows raised and clearly unimpressed. “He’s playing Ultimate,” she deadpans. “Wow. I mean, we might as well call him Satan in a cut-off tee.” 

“You can do to lose the sarcasm, Allison,” Lydia bites back. “It’s just -- _god_ , he’s so frustrating.”

Now Allison looks interested. She props her chin on her palm and leans in. “You know, you’ve never actually explained _why_ you ‘hate him’ so much.” 

Lydia holds her index finger up. “Glad you asked. He’s your typical dude-bro, for one,” she explains, more than ready to unload. “Backwards facing snapbacks, cut-off t-shirts emphasizing the two-hour gym time minimum he puts in daily, a spot on his frat’s Wall of Victory for extreme beer pong prowess.” She heaves a sigh, narrowing her eyes as she watches Jordan catch the frisbee behind his back. “And you can almost always find him playing ‘ _Ultimate’_ with his _boys_ in the main field outside Carter Hall. He’s just… just so _typical_.” 

Allison wrinkles her nose, amused smile playing at her lips. “Okay? And?” She pulls her hair over her shoulder. “You never get this worked up over anyone. In fact--” She turns to take a look over her shoulder again, and says, contemplative, “I’d say he’s exactly your type.”

Lydia glances over again, just in time to see Jordan swipe a towel from his gym bag on the sidelines. He dabs at his impressive abs, exchanging conversation she can’t make out with his friends. It’s true -- under normal circumstances, Lydia would have been pursuing him from the day he sat down next to her in _Feminist Theories and Methods Across the Disciplines._ The problem is, well, he’s in her feminist theories course in the first place. He’s browsing around in the hipster bookshop she frequents for obscure titles, reading from books a guy that _looks_ like him shouldn’t -- per the course of everything she’s learned about social structure -- be reading. (Sure, she can recognize the hypocrisy, but it is what it is.) Worse yet, he talks to her about his grandmother, whom he visits weekly and takes to bingo, and the one-eyed cat he convinced his brothers to adopt. He’s sweet, sarcastic, and smart, all rolled into one. Exactly her type, and exactly the opposite -- because she can see herself falling, and Lydia Martin doesn’t fall in love. 

No, she doesn’t hate Jordan Parrish. She doesn’t hate him at all.

Their eyes meet from across the field, and he waves like he’s happy to see her, a gentle smile on his face. She raises a hand back in greeting, the polite, proper thing to do -- despite being caught staring -- and swallows back the rising tide of trouble.

 

-

 

The weekend finds Lydia with a handful of invitations to mentally card through: a low key party in Palo Alto, a rave in the industrial district of SF, and a few mixers down on Greek Row. She’s not a sorority girl, but Kira rushed freshman year, and she was the one who handed Lydia the lightly-crumpled flyer she now holds, announcing the _Pi Beta Phi-Phi Kappa Psi_ mixer that’s supposed to be -- according to the boneheads in her Bio lecture -- “epic, bro”. She knows which one sounds the most fun, but there’s a certain someone she’s trying to limit exposure to, so she tosses the flyer into the trash can with finality. 

She shoots Allison a text message afterwards. **_I’m thinking the rave._**

Allison texts back a minute later, a frowny-faced emoji and **_you hate light shows. what’s up???_**

Lydia rolls her eyes. The problem with being blunt on how she feels about most things in life and having an even more honest best friend is that she can’t get away with anything -- though, she has to admit, she was pretty transparent. Her mistake, or a subconscious ploy to end up exactly where she wants? She shakes the thought away. **_Do I have to remind you who’s in phi psi?_**  

Of course, this admission means she ends up going Greek, Allison making noise about another brother she’s been eyeing since the semester started as guilt fodder. Scott’s pretty cute, so Lydia isn’t even mad. And, despite her initial hesitation, she does end up enjoying herself. The music is on point, as it usually is, and the drinks strong enough that her gaze stops wandering -- searching -- after a half hour. Which means, eventually, she bumps right into Jordan. She stumbles, teetering on her heels, and he catches her around the waist. 

“Hey,” he greets her over the thumping bassline, sunny smile well in place. When his arm slips away, she distinctly misses the loss. “You enjoying yourself?” 

She lifts her cup up. “Always a blast with Phi Psi.” 

“You know, that was _almost_ our tagline this year,” he swears, faux solemn. Then, he hooks a thumb over his shoulder at the beer pong tables. “Wanna partner up? Boyd’s told me you’ve got some moves.” 

Her stomach swoops, secretly glad he’s talked about her -- she’s tipsy enough she can admit it. “Boyd’s right,” she gloats. She’s nothing if not competitive, even if the game is a drinking one. “I have impeccable hand-eye coordination.” 

“So is that a yes?” he asks innocently, and god, his _grin_ ; on anyone else, Lydia might call the look smarmy, but there’s something so genuine about him that she can’t help but smile back, take his word at face value and stop spinning the khaki shorts and baseball hats into something more. At least for now.

“Yes,” she huffs, like it’s a hardship, and follows him to the tables.

They pick up the next round, and they crush the competition -- Lydia’s hand-eye coordination as good as it ever was, and Jordan’s place on the Wall of Victory absolutely justified -- and it’s not long before Lydia forgets her _do not pass go_ promise when it comes to Jordan Parrish, and she’s in full-on flirt mode. 

“You’re not half bad,” she remarks, after he lands an island shot. Then, to Boyd and Erica across the table, “Drink up!” 

“And you’re ruthless.” 

“Someone has to be,” she points out. “You’re _way_ too lenient on the trick shots.”

He scoffs, playing at scandalized. “Eyes closed counts.” 

“Barely.” She raises her eyebrows. “I think I’m done kicking everyone’s ass tonight, though.” 

“Sure.” He smiles, amused. “Can I get you a drink?”

“Nah,” she says, and bites her lip. “But I could use fresh air and some company.” 

It’s much cooler outside than in the house, and goosebumps break out across Lydia’s arms as soon as she steps out onto the back porch. A moment later, a warm shirt is draped over her shoulders, and she turns, startled, to see that Jordan has taken off his flannel button-up. He looks good in a white tank top, and it takes a concerted effort to tear her gaze away. 

“Chivalry is alive and well,” she murmurs, and turns her face into the collar. It smells like sandalwood, a hint of cologne and sweat, and her cheeks heats when she sees him watching her quietly. “Could that be another Phi Psi catchphrase?” 

“We’re open to suggestions,” he says, but there’s a glint of something in his eyes that doesn’t feel entirely innocent either. She takes a slow breath and turns, knowing exactly where this is going, the space between them shrinking in slow motion; she feels that gravity drawing her in, like she did the very first day when he sat down next to her with a carefree smile, and when he finally bends down to meet her when she pushes up on her tiptoes -- it’s like the sweetest thing. She draws her arms up and around his shoulders, hardly caring that they’re in full view of the living room, his brothers and Allison. 

His hands are firmly on her hips, warm and solid, and the smile on his face when they finally break away makes her heart race. _Trouble_ , she thinks, and swallows it back, letting Jordan kiss her, and kiss her again.


End file.
